


The Prize

by lyricalballads



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:35:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26427970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyricalballads/pseuds/lyricalballads
Summary: Smeagol tries to justify his murder of Deagol, but guilt catches up to him.
Kudos: 1





	The Prize

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on fanfiction.net on 09/19/2011. It’s also a revised version of a much older story I wrote waaay back in 2004.

He gazed at the shining thing that sat in his cupped hands, mesmerized by its golden beauty. The tiny object appeared to wink at him when it caught the sun's rays, and he compulsively grinned back in a self-satisfied way.

The ring, according to Smeagol, had to be some sort of gift from above, a prize to the most worthy. Smeagol was _meant_ to have it, for he had proved himself to be strong and domineering, more than worthy of such a beautiful, shiny token. Besides, it was his birthday, and he couldn't imagine a more fitting gift than the golden prize that sat like solid sunlight in his hands.

He carefully, almost lovingly, tucked the ring into a damp trouser pocket where it would be safe. Picking up his discarded fishing rod and forgetting all about the fish he had caught just minutes before, he walked away from the river bank and headed for home. He supposed his grandmother, the sharpest old woman he had ever met in his life, would bear down on him with questions the moment he returned alone, but Smeagol already had a story worked out in his head.

Deagol had wandered away from him, the poor fool, in search of bigger and better fish to catch. He would surely come wandering home by suppertime with a trout the size of a child clutched in his fists. Yes, Smeagol certainly looked forward to such a catch for his birthday supper, he did indeed.

Suddenly, a chill came over him. He turned around and saw a pair of glassy, unblinking eyes staring fixedly at him. Deagol's body still lay in the grass, the head turned towards Smeagol with the face molded in such a mixture of shock, pain, and most of all, accusation, that Smeagol cried out, dropping his fishing rod.

"It's mine!" he said frantically. "My birthday present! It's mine, I say!"

Deagol continued to gaze at him with those dead, accusing eyes, and Smeagol stumbled forward as fast as he could, eager to get away. Something tugged on his ankle, preventing him from taking another step, and he struggled against the strong grasp with increasing panic.

What if— Oh, what if—?

A strangled noise escaped Smeagol's throat, somewhere between a gasp and a terrified moan, and he didn't dare look behind him in case his worst fears were confirmed.

"I'm sorry," he choked out.

With a desperate thrust forward, he managed to free himself from the horrific grasp and tumbled into the dewy grass.

The next few moments revealed that there was nobody behind him, nobody in pursuit. As Smeagol looked around in search of a would-be attacker his eyes fell on a huge vine growing at the base of a tree, and everything fell into place. He must have caught his ankle in the vine, which kept him from running away.

Smeagol let out a sigh of relief and chuckled to himself. How silly he had been. Of _course_ nobody was after him, especially not— well, especially not anyone Smeagol didn't wish to see. He would hurry home with the tale of Deagol's wanderings on his lips, and find a hiding place where nobody could find his treasure.

He stuck a hand in his trouser pocket and touched the ring, a reassuring gesture, and headed home.

**Author's Note:**

> I thought it would be fun to share the very first draft I wrote of this story. I jotted it down (when I was bored at school, probably) back in October 2004. I was fourteen at the time, and man, my grammar was terrible. But it’s fun to see how my writing improved between 2004 (age 14) and 2011 (age 21, the year I revised the story). 
> 
> Original Version: 
> 
> He gazed at the shining thing that sat in his cupped hands, almost seeming to wink and grin at him, in a way that made him want to smile and shine also.
> 
> The ring, Smeagol thought, had to be some sort of gift from above, a prize to the most worthy. He tightened his hold on the ring. He was meant to have it, he had proved himself to be strong and domineering, more than worthy of such a prize, such a beautiful, golden, shiny token.
> 
> He carefully, most lovingly, tucked the ring into a damp pocket. Picking up his discarded fishing rod, he walked away from the river bank, headed for home.
> 
> Suddenly, a chill came over him. He turned around, and saw a pair of glassy, unblinking eyes staring fixedly at him. Deagol's body lay in the grass, the head turned toward Smeagol, the face an odd bluish tint and molded in a such a look of shock, pain, and most of all, accusation, that Smeagol cried out, dropped his fishing rod, and stumbled forward as fast as he could. Something tugged on his ankle, he struggled against the strong grasp, his eyes bugging out of his head and a strangled noise escaping from his throat. With a panicked thrust forward, he felt himself freed from the horrific grasp and tumbled into the dewy grass.
> 
> He looked around him and saw nothing behind him, nobody in pursuit. His eyes then fell on a huge vine growing at the foot of a tree. He must have caught his ankle in it, which prevented him from running.
> 
> Smeagol let out a sigh of relief and chuckled to himself. How silly he had been. Of course nobody was after him. He stuck a hand in his pocket and touched the ring, a reassuring gesture, and headed home.


End file.
